Nikita awoke to a white ceiling. Instantly she knew she was in Med. Lab. She gingerly moved her head to her left, sensing that Madeline was standing there. She was looking down on Nikita with no expression on her face. As usual. "How are you feeling?", Madeline asked as she let a smile creep across her face.

"Fine," Nikita responded slowly. "How'd we do?" She felt as though her body were made of lead and her head was pounding but she would die before she let Madeline know that.

There was a brief moment of silence before Madeline responded. "The mission was completed. We have the disk." Madeline tilted her head and studied the young woman lying in the white bed. She waited.

Nikita could only take Madeline's answer to mean that they had done just fine on the mission. She lay back on the pillow, allowing her eyes to close as a wave of pain radiated from her temples. There was something important she wanted to know, but the thought stayed just out of her reach.

Madeline let the silence stretch, then walked to the end of Nikita's bed, her heels clicking hollowly in the stark white room. Letting her hands rest on the metal frame, she waited for Nikita to open her eyes again. Madeline studied Nikita's face. No bruises this time, but she had to have one hell of a headache. The drug she had been given was potent: she had been out of it for almost thirty-six hours. She could see Nikita struggling to ask a question and she prepared the answer in her mind as she watched. She held back a smile when Nikita finally opened her eyes. Not that her answer was amusing, quite the contrary, but she was interested to see how Nikita would react.

Nikita's eyes were slightly unfocused and her voice quiet and scratchy with pain. She hated to ask this but she had to know. The answer could kill her, one way or the other, but she really had no choice. She *needed* to know. Taking a breath, she looked Madeline square in the eye as she spoke.

"Did Birkoff kill Michael?"

**********************

Madeline pondered Nikita's question, keeping her face smooth so as not to show the surprise she felt. This wasn't exactly what she had been expecting. She considered her options before smiling slightly once again at the younger woman. She let the silence stretch for a moment before breaking it with her answer.

"What, exactly, do you remember, Nikita?"

Nikita hated it when Madeline did that, answered her question with a question. It annoyed her but even as she identified that, flashes of memory shimmered before her mind's eye. She tried to follow them, to make sense of them, but they came too quickly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You….did it? Oh, God! You killed him, Seymour. You killed Michael!", she crawled to Michael's prone form, almost wailing. "You really did it….my God…you really did it….", she rocked back and forth on her heels, arms wrapped around her knees

And then another flash, but she couldn't tell if it was supposed to come before or after the other.

She squirmed beneath him, pulling his attention away from the young man with the gun. She moaned and twisted against his hands, struggling for freedom.

And then finally, another image took its place.

Michael ended her flight with a tackle. They tumbled to ground, Michael rolling with Nikita until he pinned her beneath him. She struggled against him for a moment, but he held her firmly, arms down to each side of her head as his expressionless face stared down into hers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikita looked up at Madeline as the final image played through her mind. Madeline had walked slowly around to observe the medications that were still dripping into Nikita's IV. Their eyes met. Nikita licked suddenly dry lips, trying to decide what to tell the other woman.

"I remember giving the disk to Birkoff. Then . . . I was running, I think, from Michael. He . . . tackled me. Pinned me to the ground," her voice was soft and she fought to keep herself from trembling. She faltered, lowering her eyes before continuing. "I remember . . . Michael laying there, very still . . . ," Nikita stopped, unable to continue as her throat clenched with unshed tears.

Madeline watched as Nikita fought for control of herself. She waited a few minutes, allowing the younger operative a moment to collect herself before she spoke again. "Why were you running from Michael?" She asked as gently as she could.

Nikita's head shot up, her eyes flashing. "He was going to hurt me! I...", Nikita's voice trailed off, surprised at her own outburst.

Madeline paused. Nikita refused to meet her questioning gaze. Madeline sighed, then calmly said, "Is that everything, Nikita?"

Nikita searched her mind and though there was more it came and went in brief moments, making no sense, so that she could only guess at what she remembered. Quietly, she whispered, "Yes."

Madeline was silent as she placed this information with what she already knew.

"Madeline? I have to know. Did Birkoff kill Michael?" Nikita's voice was stronger now, demanding an answer.

Madeline knew there was no way to avoid the answer. Nikita would demand it from anyone who came into her room. She fixed Nikita with a cool stare and said, "That hasn't been confirmed yet." Madeline watched the shock cross Nikita's face. She walked to the end of the bed before continuing. "Anything else?"

Nikita sat still, stunned at Madeline's revelation. Not confirmed? How could that be? What the hell had happened out there? She stared at the other woman, unable to think of anything else to say. Madeline gave her a small smile, turned and walked out of the room, leaving Nikita in silence.

She stared at the door long after Madeline had left, trying to force herself to see images that she had only glimpsed before. Colors and odd trees and she felt . . . there was no way to describe it. She saw faces, but they were members of the team, loosely holding her down as she struggled weakly against them. She tried to reach to that something that hovered just at the edge of her mind, something important but it kept slipping away. Finally, exhausted from her efforts, she slept.

***********************

Michael opened his eyes, blinking against the strengthening sunlight that streamed through the open slats of the wall. He sat still for a moment, trying to clear his head and gather his thoughts. The feel of rough wood against his cheek and the sweet smell of old hay told him where he was. The barn. He raised his head from the wall, attempting to sit up a little more and ease the ache in his back. The sharp pain from throbbing ribs that protested this action made him draw in a mindful breath. Carefully, Michael placed one hand down on the hay-strewn floor and worked himself into a better position. When he had finally collapsed a few hours ago, he hadn't given any thought as to how he would feel when he got up again. At that point, anything other than standing was fine with him. Now he was paying for it with cramped muscles that screamed for release. He stretched his legs out, crossing heavy boots at the ankle as he tried to make himself comfortable

Michael leaned his head back against the wood of the barn. Part of the roof had fallen in on itself and some of the boards were missing, but it was the best he could do at that point. It seemed sturdy enough, and it was far enough away from the farmhouse that he wouldn't have to worry about the owners spotting him. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his side. It was so quiet here. The air was still and heavy with the thick scent that only years of hay and feed can leave behind. He let it wrap around him like a blanket. Even through his pain, Michael recognized the peace this place had to offer. He absorbed it gratefully, letting his limbs become heavy and relaxed. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just for a moment.

He awoke from the light doze and surveyed the barn again. The insistent throbbing in his side could be ignored no longer. Realizing he couldn't put it off any longer, Michael closed his eyes briefly, trying to prepare himself for his next action. Taking a breath, he released it slowly as he moved his left hand away from the wound in his side. Good. The bleeding seemed to have stopped for now. Now it was time to evaluate the damage. He laid the gun he had been holding on the bale of hay next to him. It was still within easy reach. Slowly, using both hands, he eased the shirt up toward his chest in a slow even movement. He almost stopped when the dried blood from his wound tugged at the black cotton, only sheer force of will made him continue the even movement. He clenched his teeth as the shirt was freed from the blackened blood. Michael looked down, forcing himself to ascertain the damage. Luckily, the bullet had torn a jagged path into his side just above his hipbone. No vital organs had been hit as the bullet didn't go directly into him. Rather, it looked as if it had ricocheted off the vest then chewed into his side on it's way past. It needed to be cleaned and then bandaged. He had already lost a lot of blood and they still had a long way to go before they got to safety. The barn may do for now, but not for long. Of that he was certain.

Next, he took stock of his other injuries. His chest was sporting purplish bruises where each bullet had made contact with the kevlar vest. The skin over his aching ribs was dark maroon, promising more purple in the future. Gently feeling along the bones, clenching his teeth to keep silent, Michael probed his ribs until he was satisfied they were merely bruised and not broken. Still, it would slow him down.

Michael lowered the shirt back over the wound. He staggered up, back against the wooden slats of the barn. Ribs screaming, he grabbed his gun as he went. He paused, catching his breath, then moved over to check on his prisoner. Birkoff was still unconscious but it seemed to be more sleep now than the limp withdrawal of before. Michael carefully knelt and checked the bindings on Birkoff's hands and feet, tugging the binding until he was certain the young man was still secure. Satisfied that he wouldn't be going anywhere, Michael moved on. Creeping down the ladder from the loft to the bottom floor of the old barn, he began his search. Last . . . when? Michael paused to check his watch and see how much time had passed since he had collapsed here. His eyes widened as he realized that almost thirty-six hours had passed since his last contact with Section. Twelve of that time, he had spent running, or rather staggering, as he carried Birkoff. Looking desperately for safety, he had eventually stumbled upon this place. Then collapsed. Apparently, he was more exhausted than he thought if he had let that much time pass before moving on. It was a miracle they hadn't been found yet. He would have to make this quick.

A warm flow of blood down his side brought his attention back to the immediate problem of his wounds. He tried to visualize what he had seen upon first arriving. Moving quietly to one corner, he found the container he was looking for. Opening it and sniffing, he almost smiled. Kerosene. Good. He debated briefly whether or not to carry the cannister back to the loft or just use it here, but a soft moan coming from upstairs settled the debate for him. He moved up the wooden ladder again, lugging the kerosene with him. He checked on Birkoff again, but the young man was still sleeping, although he was lying on his side now rather than his back. Michael moved back to his place against the wall of the loft. Setting the can of kerosene down, he let himself slide down the rough wood, hoping against splinters. He breathed a sigh of relief at sitting again, allowing a moment of stillness before proceeding.

First, he found his knife. After gingerly removing his shirt, he sliced off a fairly clean piece. Trembling now, he dipped it into the kerosene and brought it to his side. He had heard once, that you could use kerosene to stop bleeding and prevent infection with little or no pain. He had never really wanted to test the old wives' tale, but it seemed he had no choice for now. Slowly, he cleaned the spiky groove of torn flesh with the saturated cloth. The sting from the kerosene was manageable, but the dried blood he sponged away pulled painfully with every stroke. After what seemed like eternity, the wound was as clean as he could get it. He let the oily kerosene dry somewhat as he tore the remainder of his shirt into strips. Packing the wound with clean cloth, he wrapped one of the makeshift bandages around his hips and tied a tight knot over the wound. He was breathing hard by the time this last was finished, fighting the pain of the knot and the drag of exhaustion. He looked over at Birkoff once more, then donned the long sleeved jacket he had shed when he had arrived and zipped it up. Settling with the gun in his hand, Michael finally gave in to his body's screams of protest and let himself rest.

***********************

Nikita paced in her room, stretching sore muscles and trying to figure out just what had happened. She had gotten the disk, gone to the van, then . . . she wasn't sure. She stopped pacing as the door opened and Madeline stepped into the room, smiling. Nikita did not trust that smile, wanted to wipe it off of Madeline's cool face with shrieks of frustration and rage. Instead, she settled on glaring at the brown-clad figure before her.

As if reading Nikita's thoughts, Madeline let her smile disappear as she studied the young operative. Nikita looked healthy enough. The additional four hours of sleep had done her some good. It had erased the unfocused look from her eyes but there were still some unresolved issues to be addressed. Madeline let the silence stretch, mentally counting seconds as she waited for Nikita to speak first. She didn't have to wait long.

"What are you doing here now, Madeline," Nikita's voice was wary and full of suspicion.

Madeline couldn't stop the genuine smile that spread across her face. Inwardly she laughed; sometimes she knew Nikita better than Nikita knew herself. She only let Nikita see the smile, of course. Her next words were clipped in sharp contrast to the smile. "You're being released to close quarter standby. We still have some questions." Madeline turned to leave as soon as the last words had left her mouth, pausing only when Nikita spoke to her.

"Do we have confirmation yet, Madeline?" Nikita couldn't keep the apprehension out of her voice. It irritated her.

Madeline didn't even turn around. She half turned her head, acknowledging the blonde only half way. "Stay close, Nikita. You'll hear from us," came the cool response. Then she glided away, leaving Nikita in the stark white room alone.

Nikita stared after Madeline for a few minutes, sick of not knowing what was happening. She walked around her room and changed out of the white pants and tank top as fast as she could, then headed out to find some answers. She checked the computer station first, surprised at first when she didn't see Birkoff there. There were a few of his assistants working on various projects, and she considered asking one of them to pull the file or something. Then she realized that she didn't know any of them well enough to ask that kind of favor. She headed instead to talk to her one other friend in Section. Walter.

"Hi, Walter," Nikita said as calmly as she could, considering the frustration she was feeling. Walter turned from his table, a wide smile spreading across his weathered face.

"Hello, Sugar. I heard they were letting you out soon. And of course the first place you head to is to see me. You sure you feel up to a man like me. Sugar?" Walter raised his eyebrows at the beautiful blonde.

Nikita smiled back at him. "I'll never be ready for a man like you, Walter. You should know that by now." She let her body rest next to his as she spoke. She could feel her frustration ease somewhat with the light banter. It was always a pleasure to talk to Walter.

Walter nodded and turned back to his table. Glancing around, Nikita let her smile fade a little before hitting the old man up for the desired Intel.

"Walter? What have you heard about Michael and Birkoff?" Nikita tried to keep the concern from her voice but she didn't do a very good job.

Walter looked up from his work, studying her face closely and seeing her concern. "Sugar, I thought you'd be the one to tell me." He sighed heavily before continuing. "All I know is that you came in unconscious and Michael and Birkoff didn't come in at all. You know what THAT usually means."

Nikita drew the obvious conclusion, one she didn't like at all. "So they're both missing?"

Walter's face hardened somewhat. "You heard what I said, Sugar. They're both missing," he turned back to his work and then added, "And Operations has all of those damn kids working on that disk instead of trying to find them."

***********************

Sunlight assaulted his eyes and he turned his head to escape the cruel embrace only to be taken in by another stronger master. His head throbbed with agony and he moaned, wishing he hadn't moved to begin with; he sat still in an attempt to relieve his besieged temples. Slowly, the pain receded allowing him to become aware of other aches and pains that protested his newfound state of wakefulness. Birkoff moved gingerly to sit, unwilling to further irritate the demons that attacked him. It was obvious he wasn't in Section.

He started to raise his hands, then stopped and stared. They were bound together and they were covered with splotches of gooey black stuff. Birkoff could feel the fear and alarm growing but he struggled to remain calm. Quickly, ignoring any pain it might cause, he looked around trying to orient himself to his surroundings. He was in a barn, surrounded by hay and he was HOT. Shafts of sunlight fell through slatted walls and the floor creaked with every move he made. *Great* he thought with biting sarcasm. *Nature*.

Even the sword of sarcasm wasn't enough to quench the cold fear that welled up in his throat. His eyes darted about the loft, finally coming to rest on a still, black-clad form that sat leaning against one wall. Birkoff breathed a sight of relief as he met the cold green-eyed gaze. Michael was here, a class five operative, so everything HAD to be okay. He told himself this over and over but the silent green stare didn't offer much reassurance.

The silence stretched as Birkoff waited for some explanation as to why they were here and why his head hurt and WHY was he bound? He broke from the unforgiving stare and looked about the loft again. He knew that he would have to speak first, that Michael was not one to volunteer any information, but he wanted to put some pieces together first. Finally, he gave in to the silence.

"Michael, why are we in a barn? Why are my hands and feet tied?", he raised his hands to show the binding. Halfway up, Birkoff froze, his eyes locked onto the palms of his hands as the nature of the substance clicked into place. He began to shake.

"Michael-," Birkoff's voice was quiet and strained. He cleared his throat and began again. "Michael, I have BLOOD on me," he raised his fear-filled eyes to look at the older man. The icy green eyes dropped down and away and covered themselves in a blink before coming back to meet Birkoff's gaze. They held no answers.

Birkoff felt a numbing chill race down his spine at the cool look that greeted him. He had an overwhelming need to break through that green-ice wall, to make himself heard. He raised his voice.

"Blood! I have blood all over me, Michael! What happened? Am I shot!?! What-." Distantly, Birkoff knew that he was caught in a web of panic, his voice rising with every word as he frantically searched himself for any sign of injury. His calm rational self was there but grasping it was like trying to hold a ray of light. He could see it, but it slipped away as he gave in to panic.

Quietly, firmly, Michael spoke, "Birkoff-."

The younger man ignored him as he twisted about and chanted, "ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod" in a ceaseless round of panic.

Michael spoke again, louder, but he was still ignored.

Finally, clenching his teeth against frustration, Michael levered himself to his feet, taking the gun and chambering a round before speaking again. The hollow sound of the bullet sliding home echoed through the loft. Michael drew a deep breath, fighting the pain in his side.

"Birkoff!", he barked out as he pointed the gun at the young man.

It had the desired effect. Birkoff froze, never having heard his name spoken quite like that before. He raised his head, his eyes fixating on the gleaming gun, his hands becoming silent and still on his stomach. Thick silence fell as Birkoff waited for a bullet to find his heart.

Satisfied that he finally had the young man's attention, Michael spoke softly through the thick air.

"Be quiet." Then he lowered the gun and sat again.

Birkoff's rounded eyes stayed focused on the gun for a long time.

***********************

"Nikita?", the unfamiliar voice came from behind her. Nikita turned to see one of "those kids" Walter had just been talking about staring at her uncertainly. Poor kid couldn't be much more than 18, she thought. Immediately Nikita relaxed her posture to put him at ease. She could see the young man sigh his relief at finding the right person.

"Yes?", Nikita responded as she leaned against Walter's work table. She watched in amusement as the young man stuttered, obviously affected by her presence.

"M-Madeline wants to see you. In her, office . . . now. OK?"

Nikita barely managed to keep from laughing out loud as she answered. "Sure. Anything else?" The last was added when the young man continued to stare at her. He flushed, turning pink as he mumbled something and then turned and fairly ran away from her. Nikita lowered her head as she finally let the smile break across her face. She turned to find Walter smiling with her.

"You're cruel, Sugar. No fair taunting the young ones like that. But you can taunt ME anytime . . . ," Walter leered as he propositioned the blonde operative.

Nikita lowered her head and gave him a sultry look as she answered, "Really. Is that all?"

Walter paused, a little dazzled by vibes Nikita was broadcasting. He smiled again, amazed that she had learned so much about herself in the last four years. This Nikita was much different from the one that had first come to Section. "Get out of here, you little minx, before you get in over your head", Walter shook his finger at her.

Nikita laughed and pushed herself away, then grimaced as a pang of worry stabbed her as she headed off to Madeline's office. Walter watched as she sauntered away, shaking his head as she disappeared from sight. Wrapped in the warm glow of friendship that Nikita always brought, Walter began to chuckle softly as he turned back to his work.

***********************

It was getting dark, the falling sun turning everything to soft gold. Birkoff stared blindly at the pink streaks running across the sky. He moved his hands unconsciously against the bonds that held them together. No amount of pleading had induced Michael to take them off or loosen them. Birkoff still didn't know why he was tied. The pieces he needed to put the puzzle in place were missing. Everything was foggy and Michael was no help in clearing it up. Not a word had slipped from the older man's lips since he had yelled at Birkoff earlier.

Cramping muscles made him shift again in a useless effort to ease them. After a moment of rustling around, he gave up. He had sat here all day, breathing in the thick air until he hated the very thought of any animal that required hay for survival. The damn stuff was itchy and it made him sneeze. Although Michael hadn't spoken, he had made it clear that there would be no noise made by them. Sneeze without making noise?! Birkoff cursed the hay he sat on, wishing he could burn it all right now.

He had worked all day at trying to figure out what sort of situation he was in. Alone in a damn barn with Michael. Far away from the van and the mission. Michael must have carried him here, and from the various aches and pains, he hadn't been too careful about it, either. But why had Michael brought him here? His last clear memory was that it was dark, around 11pm or so. There was a gap after that and then came the barn and daylight. He figured, then that 12 hours or so had passed. Longer now, he mused as he looked at the setting sun. Almost 24 hours then, since he had last made contact with Section. Birkoff frowned, fighting desperately against another sneeze. He lost, but managed to remain silent even though it made his ears pop. Again. All animals that ate hay should be killed, he thought with intense hatred. He couldn't wait to eat a hamburger. Stupid hay!

Shifting again, Birkoff pulled his thoughts away from food. It was making his stomach rumble and he couldn't control that sound. No telling what the Class Five Op would do to him if he heard it! He turned to look at Michael. He was still in the same place, leaning back against the slats with his eyes closed. Suddenly, Birkoff had a flash of Michael, face pale, chasing him through the woods. He frowned again, looking closer at the other man. He sat very still and was wearing a long sleeved black jacket zipped up all the way to the throat. How he stood wearing that, Birkoff would never know. But then again, he had read a mission report once that described how Michael had used gunpowder to cauterize a bullet wound on his own arm. He hadn't quite believed it then, not really seeing how anyone could do that sort of thing to themselves. Ah, but this is Michael, he reminded himself. Birkoff shivered and made a mental note to ALWAYS stay on his good side, if he even had one. Always.

Which brought him back to the fact that Michael wouldn't untie him. He knew that he wouldn't ever go against Michael. That would mean certain death. So why was Michael holding him prisoner here in a barn. Birkoff shook his head. He was missing something. Something vital. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what it was. He was rewarded with flashing images. They crawled across his eyelids leaving imprints of themselves to be puzzled over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikita laughed softly as she turned her head to look at him again. "He'll hurt me, Birkoff," she whispered, her soft voice drawing the computer genius closer. "You've seen him do it. Look at how he holds me down. Always hurting me."

Michael looked at Nikita in calm amazement as her blue eyes filled with tears. "Please," she said. "Please HELP me Birkoff!" At her raised voice Michael turned his gaze back to him as Nikita began to sob.

Birkoff trembled, his head pounding as he pulled on the few strands of memory, tugging at them, trying to make it make sense . . .

"LISTEN to me, Seymour! All he ever does is hurt people! You think you'll be any different? Kill him!!", Nikita was crying again, blue eyes pleading with him. Her voice dropped, becoming small and desperate as Michael stood and slowly moved away from her. Michael stepped closer to him, his hands reaching out for the gun as Nikita continued to plead with him. "Please. Help me Birkoff…help me…PLEASE!!!!!!!"

And then Michael's voice . . .

He locked eyes with Michael and watched as the operative turned his head slightly in Nikita's direction, all the while maintaining eye contact with him. When Michael spoke, the warning was clear in his voice, "Nikita!"

Just beyond reach . . . if he stretched, he could get it . . .

He stood unmoving over Michael, shocked at what he just done. Michael lay still, blood beginning to flow out from between his fingers in slick red lines. He stared transfixed at the blood. Then he remembered and lowered the gun to his side.

"What have you done?" The voice belonged to Nikita. He turned to her, scared and surprised at her reaction.

"I shot him…. I shot M-Michael."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Birkoff's eyes flew open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He turned to see Michael awake and watching him with calm green eyes. Sweat ran down his neck and Birkoff could feel himself shaking as he looked into those icy green depths.

Always stay on his good side. Always, he thought as he covered his face with his hands. I shot him! How am I supposed to stay on his good side now?

***********************

Madeline was waiting for her when the door slid open. Nikita, careful to keep her face free of emotion, stepped down into the room and crossed over to stand in front of the desk. She raised her chin and waited, eyes focused above Madeline's head.

"Sit down, Nikita," Madeline spoke into the silence.

"I'll stand, thank you," Nikita's reply was smooth.

Madeline tilted her head as she studied the young blonde, her hands folded together, elbows resting on the table. She looked at her monitor as she let the silence grow once more, then pushed herself away from the desk as she stood. Meeting Nikita's defiant glare, she smiled.

"Do you know why you're here, Nikita?" Madeline asked as she walked over to stand before her collection of bonsai trees.

Nikita turned, allowing her body to follow the cool brunette like a radar dish. Madeline's back was turned to her and Nikita lowered her head trying to make out what sort of game she could be playing. After a few moments of staring at the older woman's back, Nikita gave in and, linking her hands behind her back, moved to stand beside her. Carefully, she too kept her gaze fixed on the small trees.

"Well, I would assume that it has something to do with Michael and Birkoff," she turned her head to study Madeline's reaction to her words, knowing she was right.

Madeline merely nodded as she fingered a plant. Again, the silence stretched out. Finally, Madeline turned to face Nikita. She crossed her arms as she did so, fabricating a relaxed attitude. Her unreadable brown eyes raised from the plants to meet the clear blue of Nikita's gaze.

"Good. You are also here to be . . . reminded," Madeline's voice was clean of any emotion.

Nikita was immediately suspicious. She made no effort to conceal the fact as she answered, "Reminded. Of what? The fact that we've lost two of our people and are making no effort to find them?"

Madeline didn't even blink at this barb, although it wasn't without effort. She allowed a tiny smile before continuing. "I'm here to you remind you that you have other things to think about. That it's imperative to keep your personal feelings separate from what we do here. Under no circumstance do we place our own concerns above those of Section."

Nikita stared into the bottomless brown of Madeline's unreadable eyes. "Our own . . . Concerns," she drawled, barely able to keep the anger under control. "You don't consider Michael and Birkoff to be worthy of Sections' . . . concern?" She turned away from the older woman, pretending to study the bonsai plants in front of her.

"I was told once, that this place was my new 'family'. Families care for each other, Madeline. They look out for one another," Nikita's anger colored her voice, accentuating her point clearly. "Just because you and Operations may not . . . be concerned, doesn't mean that I have to feel the same way. And I won't pretend otherwise." She flung the words as she would a knife, letting them tumble through the air until they found their target.

Madeline's face hardened and she let her hands fall to her side. Unflinchingly she met Nikita's angry stare. "Just do your job Nikita. You may not like the consequences if you don't."

"Is that a threat, Madeline?" Nikita felt a moment of triumph at knowing her words had reached the solid Madeline.

Madeline smiled again and tilted her head. "Of course not," she replied.

Nikita paused for a moment. Then, sensing an air of dismissal, she made her way to the steps that led out of the office. Madeline spoke again, causing her to pause halfway up.

"It's not a threat, Nikita. It's a fact. One you'd better get used to."

Nikita didn't turn around as she left.

***********************

Birkoff sat, stunned by his earlier flash of memory. It still seemed surreal. He had studied Michael closely looking for the bullet wound. He knew he had shot him. He just didn't know where. It had to be Michael's blood that was on him then. He rubbed at the dried stuff still flecking his palms. Inside, he tried to justify his action against the other man. He tried to tell himself that Michael was going to hurt Nikita and then, of course, himself. He had to have shot Michael out of self defense. Hadn't he?

Had Michael been seduced by a terrorist organization? Had he betrayed Section, the mission, Nikita? Birkoff shook his head. He just couldn't believe it of Michael. Other operatives, yes. But not Michael. Why then, had he been hurting Nikita? Birkoff still couldn't believe that, even after all that had happened, Michael would kill Nikita. It was obvious that he felt something for the beautiful blonde. If it wasn't love, then Birkoff didn't know what it could be. Deep respect? Lust? Whatever it was, it kept both of them alive and playing at dangerous games. Was this all a ploy to get Nikita out of Section, then? He shook his head. He still had no answers. He stared into the darkness.

A soft scraping of hay and wood made him twist around. Michael was up and walking toward him, the dull gleam of a knife shining in his hand. He approached Birkoff warily. Birkoff, for his part, didn't move. He tried to hide his terror.

Here he was, trussed up and helpless while a Class Five operative moved toward him. An operative he had shot, no less. The best operative he knew. Michael stopped before him, standing silently. Birkoff closed his eyes and waited for death. He jerked as Michael cut the rope binding his feet, then opened his eyes into green ones as Michael took hold of his hands. They looked at each other for an unspoken moment, then Michael cut the bonds and stood, straightening himself slowly. Birkoff didn't move. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't think of what it could be. He let his eyes move down, swallowing when he caught sight of the stiff side of the black jacket. He took a breath. The coppery scent of blood and another unidentified smell filled the air. Was that-kerosene?

Birkoff stood as Michael pulled him to his feet. Michael turned him to look out the loft, then whispered in his ear.

"There is the house. We are going to go there, very quietly. You will get some of the clothes on the line, over there. Understand? Then you will meet me at the truck on the other side." Michael's voice was soft and filled with authority.

Birkoff nodded. Abruptly, he felt Michael's hands tighten on his shoulders.

"If you try to run, I will kill you. If you try anything other than what I have told you, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Birkoff nodded, throat so dry he couldn't possibly speak.

"Let's go," Michael whispered. Silently, they left the barn.

***********************

Madeline looked up as her office door slid open. She smiled as Operations stepped down into her domain. Reaching over, Madeline dimmed the screen she had been reading and then leaned back in her chair.

"Hello", her voice was warm and inviting.

Operations paused, hands in pockets as he returned her smile. A moment of companionable silence stretched between them, hinting of deeper currents that could never quite manage to sweep them away. Finally, Operations broke the silence.

"I saw that we finished processing the data from the Olivas disk. It looks like the end game is in sight."

There was an edge to his words, although not cutting, and it amused Madeline somewhat. She nodded in response to his question, mentally analyzing the data she had just been reading and trying to place it within the information Nikita had given. She sat forward, her cool brown gaze meeting his clear blue eyes. "Yes. It would appear that we have extracted all the information we need to proceed."

Operations nodded and a half smile danced on his lips, "You don't sound very convinced. Do you have any objections?"

Madeline dropped her eyes and brought her hands together, forming a temple as she let her elbows rest on the desktop. She was thoughtful for a moment, as if working a puzzle in her head. Taking a breath, she met Operation's stare with her own composed features. She let the smile fade before she spoke.

"I don't like anomalies. The fact that we lost Michael and Birkoff retrieving this disk is disturbing enough. It was a rather simple mission. Given also that Nikita seems to believe that Birkoff killed or injured Michael only adds to my unease. We have very few facts as to what actually occurred on that mission."

Madeline watched as Operation's face hardened, the smile replaced by a grim line. It was obvious he was not pleased to be reminded of their most recent losses. Michael was expendable, but Birkoff was a touchy subject. She let her words settle before she continued. "It seems likely that Nikita was altered in some way that night."

Operations looked at Madeline with raised eyebrows, "Drugs?"

Madeline took a deep breath, contemplating. "Yes, given the information supplied by her and the other members of the team. Although the medical tests were inconclusive as to what or how she received the substance. It's also possible that Michael was exposed as well."

"Is it also possible that he kidnaped Birkoff?", Operations asked incredulously.

"Yes, although it's just as likely that he is in Mandatory Refusal," Madeline kept her voice smooth.

Operations looked sharply at her, weighing her words. He had already thought of these last two possibilities, but he found it beneficial to use Madeline as a sounding board for things like this. Her insight almost always opened up a new avenue for him. Curious to see if this would be an exception, he asked, "How do you think we should proceed?"

Madeline stood, moving around the desk to stand before him. "We should act on the Intel we've retrieved from the disk, utilizing the same team from the previous mission. This time, we should use more abeyance operatives."

"And Nikita?" Cold blue eyes smiled into dark chocolate.

Madeline held steady under the blue onslaught, "Nikita should go with them, of course. This could be the mission you've been waiting for. She's fully cognizant and what memory loss she has shouldn't affect her performance."

Operations smiled again. "Very well. That's the angle we'll take. Care to join me for dinner tonight?"

Something in Madeline hardened, even as she smiled back. "I have plans, thank you."

Operations nodded as he turned to leave. He paused outside the door to her office as it slid shut. Glancing back, he went over the last part of the conversation in his head. The mission he had been waiting for . . . that was how Madeline phrased it. Yet another opportunity he might have missed had it not been for her. Chuckling silently to himself, Operations went back to his own office.

***********************

"Start the car", Michael's voice was clipped and tight. They were a couple of miles away from the farm house by now and Michael had pulled over to let him take care of some 'business'. He had been a little surprised when Michael had claimed the passenger seat once they got back to the truck.

Seeing Michael's expression, he wasn't about to argue. Reaching forward past the truck's steering wheel, he fumbled around until he found the ignition. No key. Anger welled up in him. *How did Michael expect him to start the truck with no keys?* He turned to inform Michael of his discovery but as he did so, he caught sight of something that made him sigh. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed it before, but he had other things on his mind than the fact that the truck was a stick shift. Reluctantly, he looked to Michael.

"Michael. There are no keys. I can't start it because there are NO KEYS," he was trying to be nice about it, but he could tell he was talking using every bit of sarcasm at his disposal. He shrugged it off. Michael was staring at him like he had grown a second head, but so what? He had SHOT him for God's sake! He might as well be dead already! As if spending hours in a freakin' barn wasn't punishment enough!

He could feel cold green daggers pierce him. He raised his eyes again. Trying desperately to remain calm, he attempted to diffuse the situation. "Besides, it's a stick. I don't even know how to drive a stick," it sounded lame even to him, but it was true. There was nothing he could do about it now. "Guess you'll have to drive. Sorry." He turned to get out of the truck and let Michael take his place but the soft click of the gun stopped him. He settled back into place, watching as Michael deftly reached under the dashboard with one hand and twisted some wires. The truck started.

"Great! Now it's running, but I still can't drive a stick," he looked at the other man as he sat up and pointed the gun at him. A brief silence ensued. Finally, Michael spoke.

"Learn."

***********************

Nikita carefully knelt on the hard white floor of her Section quarters. She moved into a yoga position and began to take deep breathes. Closing her eyes, she blocked out the stark white of the room and focused her attention inward. She was hoping to pull her mind away from Birkhoff and Michael, to stop the worry that invaded her every breath. Her mind started to race again, turning possibilities over as quick as she could think of them. Tensing, she inhaled deeply and pushed the thoughts away and then exhaled, hoping the peace of nothingness would blanket her as she relaxed her muscles.

Were they dead? Captured? Tortured? Nikita opened her eyes in exasperation. Escape seemed impossible. She sat back and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on top. Why would Michael take Birkoff? How was she drugged? What had happened? The fact that the memories of that night eluded her most careful searching frightened her as well as frustrated her. She understood that even minor concussions could cause memory loss, but she didn't have a head injury. Michael had temporarily lost his memory from drugs, but that was under torture and this just wasn't the same. Was it more repression, perhaps? The fact that she didn't really want to remember? Nikita froze at the idea that she had done something so bad that her mind would refuse to recall it. Had she been the one to shoot Michael? Her breath caught as a wave of horror doused over her.

Just as quickly, though, an image flashed across her mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael's face was above her and she struggled to be free of him. "Enough,"he said in a soft, steely firm voice. "Focus, Nikita! We don't have time for this! Stop fighting me!"

She paused, looking into his green eyes until she couldn't bear it any longer.

She turned her head and saw Birkoff standing in front of the van door. He was slightly rumpled and she laughed. Not at the way he looked but at the fact that he held a gun in shaking hands. She could feel Michael's question but she didn't respond to it. Instead, she heard herself say, "Oh, that's classic." Then she watched as Michael looked toward the van, becoming still when he saw Birkoff.

Though shaking, the gun gripped tightly in Birkoff's hands was clearly aimed at Michael.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No, Birkoff had definitely been the one to shoot Michael. Michael couldn't be dead though, or they would have found a body. She knew he had worn a vest; she'd read in the mission report that it had been brought back to Section. It was full of bullets and she could only figure that Birkoff had emptied the clip on Michael. There had been blood, though from one of the bullets that managed to miss the vest. That had to be it. She was certain that the wound was survivable. Maybe if she kept telling herself that, she would really believe it.

Her head hurt. Nikita sighed and moved back to her previous position. She would try this again in an effort to obtain some sense of balance. She needed it. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and fought to keep the questions from infiltrating her mind. Focusing once again inward, she sought peace.

***********************

"Shift, Birkoff."

Michael's voice was smooth but Birkoff could tell that the other man was tense. He looked over but Michael stared straight ahead only offering him a profile. He looked back at the road then glanced down at the floor. * Clutch is. . .there? * He put his left foot on the pedal and let off on the gas. The truck immediately jerked to a stop and died.

He looked over at Michael, hearing the operative take in a sharp hiss of breath. He had one hand resting on his mid section and his face was pale. The next sound was the operative's controlled voice.

"That was the brake, Birkoff. The clutch is to the far left, the brake in the center. Put the truck in neutral, I'm going to start it again for you."

He hesitated, wondering how long this could go on before Michael just gave up and shot him. * Well, until then, I'm going to master this contraption! He handled things that were ten times more difficult on a daily basis! This shifting thing was not going to beat him.*

Hearing the truck come to life again, he let his determination take over. Frantically working feet and hands, he shifted the truck into first gear with only a little grinding noise to accompany the beginning lurch. They were off again, Michael staring ahead and telling him when to shift. He bounced around on the seat and played the 'H' design over and over in his head to memorize the gears. *How far did they have to go, anyway?*

***********************

"Nikita," Madeline's voice intruded on Nikita's hard won peace, shattering it and sending it flying from her in shards. Her face tightened and she looked to the speaker mounted on the wall.

"Yes," it was very difficult to keep the anger out of her voice.

"Please report to Med lab again. We want another blood sample." The click of the speaker indicated that Madeline didn't expect an answer.

Nikita unconsciously rubbed her arm as she got up from the floor. She hated Med lab and didn't want to go there, even just to give a blood sample. What did they hope to find, anyway? Shaking her head, Nikita bent to put her shoes on. She would go, of course. Maybe they would tell her something about her memory. She straightened and headed out.

***********************

Birkoff leaned back in his chair rubbing his eyes to ease the incessant drumming behind them. He had been at this slow little excuse-for-a-computer for three hours and he was just now breaking into Section code. As he waited yet *AGAIN*, he let his mind play over the events that led to this hell-hole. They had finally made it out of the truck. Michael had given up after a couple of hours and had taken over the driving himself. Birkoff had been thankful. Although it was fairly easy to drive the truck once it had made it to the last gear, it was painful to get there!

They were at some university but Birkoff didn't care enough to read the name. They had computer access and that was all that mattered to him. He reached over and picked up his can of soda and almost laughed out loud as he thought about Michael, a Class Five Operative and part of THE most covert anti-terrorist group in the world using all of his skills to break into a soda machine. Birkoff wasn't complaining, he was too thirsty for that. He did take the opportunity to convince Michael that they needed food too, even if it was just candy bars and peanut butter crackers from a vending machine. He set the soda down and picked up his third candy bar. The look on Michael's face when he first bit into one of the gooey snacks had been priceless. Michael must not eat a lot of sweet stuff and it was clear he had only done so then out of necessity.

Birkoff shook his head, looking to the computer screen as it beeped. He keyed a sequence and sat back to wait once more. *Stupid thing is so slow! I thought universities were supposed to be up on technology. Ha! This thing is so. . .so. . .ninety-four!*

He shook his head once more, noting the time displayed on the bottom of the screen again. He had been wrong back at the barn. More time had passed than he had thought. Almost an entire day more than he had first surmised. Shock had quickly given in to calculation which led to another headache as he tried to remember what had happened. That he could just lose so much time and have no idea about what went on really bothered him. He was used to being in complete command of things like that.

Checking the screen, Birkoff typed in another sequence. Finally, he was getting close. He sighed as he saw how slow the computer was making this last step. He wanted to grab it and shake the stupid thing to help it go faster. He could feel frustration creeping over him. Maybe this is what Michael had been feeling when he gave him that lecture about staying put and doing "Exactly what I say". As if he would run away at the first chance he got. *But then again,* Birkoff thought, * I did shoot him,* the thought was grim but accurate.

The beeping from the computer started again and Birkoff gave a little jump. He began to smile as he studied the screen. Working quickly, he pulled the Intel they had gotten from the disk Nikita had retrieved. He downloaded the file then began to cover his tracks when something else caught his eye. Curious and aware that they had to hurry before Simon or someone else discovered him, he downloaded that file too, then logged off.

Birkoff went very still, listening to the intense silence of the computer lab. He thought he had heard something but nothing moved in the darkness that loomed outside of his monitor light. He let a few minutes pass, briefly wondering where Michael had run off to, but then the disk Intel began to call to him. Shrugging at the silence, he turned once more the screen and opened the downloaded files.

***********************

Michael pushed the needle through his skin one more time, then pulled the thread tight. Tying a quick knot he finished his sewing. Fresh gauze was next, taped smartly over the stitches. He reached out and picked up a roll of tape, hand freezing as he heard a sound come from the hall. Silently, he slid from the table and turned off the dim lamp he had been using. Carefully, he looked out through the crack in the door, pulling back quickly as a janitor pushed his cart past, yawning. Michael checked his watch, cursing silently to himself. It was just before dawn and this place would be busy with people soon. Birkoff could easily pass for a student but he wouldn't be able to, not wearing the gear he was in now. Moving silently, he retrieved the tape and made sure that his visit would not be noticed, then donned his jacket and slipped out the door. His ribs could be taped back at the computer lab. His main concern, though, was getting back to Birkoff. He had left the genius alone in the computer lab after he was certain the young man was totally engrossed in the project he'd been given. Birkoff wouldn't run from a computer but the kid just might panic if someone walked in on him. Michael moved faster

***********************

Birkoff was uneasy. He had gotten a prickly feel at the base of his neck when he had started to read the intel from the disk. That feeling had only gotten worse as he had read further on. There was something here that he should see, something that he should know or remember.

Remember. There it was again, all that missing time. Head already pounding, Birkoff leaned back and closed his eyes, mentally reaching out for what lurked somewhere inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Do. . .We. . .Have. . .It", he looked up into the barrel of Michael's gun. He felt his eyes widen and he began to stutter out an answer.

"Uh, yeah. We've got it," for some reason, his tongue felt six inches thick, the words awkward. He turned back to his computer screen, the van suddenly smaller. His screen danced before him in a mesmerizing play of light. Far away, he could hear Michael.

"All teams converge. We have confirmation."

A moment later, he heard the van door fly open and then Michael ask, "Nikita?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Birkoff opened his eyes and jerked from his chair. He had definitely heard something that time. Unsure what to do or where to go, Birkoff did the only thing he could think of; reached over and turned the monitor off, plunging the room into total darkness. He stood immobile for a moment before realizing he should at least try to hide or something. *Where is Michael?!?* he cursed to himself as he crouched down and crawled under the computer desk. Immediately, he sneezed, managing to remain silent though his ears popped yet again. *Great* he thought as he rubbed his nose, *First hay, now dust. Perfect.* This was all Michael's fault. He wished he had been a better shot.

Almost as quick as it came, he amended that last thought. Kill Michael? He didn't think it was really possible, at least not by him. In fact, he still wasn't sure why he had shot him. Had he shot him? Birkhoff rested his head on his knees, listening to the soft sounds coming from outside the room. Forcing himself to remain still, he brought his mind to Nikita. She was there when he shot Michael, had urged him to do it. Michael was going to hurt Nikita. Wasn't he?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikita's voice broke the silence from where she lay curled in a ball on the ground. "Don't let him get any closer, Birkoff. He's trying to get the gun away from you! Shoot him! Shoot him, now!

Birkoff blinked then squeezed his eyes tight, trying to let the images just flow.

Michael froze, watching him. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Michael stood above her as Nikita lay on the ground, crying. He felt his palms sweat and he gripped the gun tighter. He would not lose it, not with Michael threatening them. He watched as Michael seemed to hesitate, caught between him and Nikita, but then he stepped forward. Birkoff made up his mind then. Michael was a dangerous man, classified as level five. Michael could kill him in a heartbeat, then turn on Nikita. He was determined to protect them both. He saw Michael moved forward, extending his hand toward the gun. He took a deep breath and the gun jumped in his hand once, then again and again. Michael jerked like a doll, the bullets pounding into his torso with a dull thud as he fell. He continued to fire, unable to stop until Michael finally hit the ground and the gun clicked on an empty chamber.

Birkoff wrinkled his forehead; the noise outside the room had stopped but he didn't notice. He was too caught up in trying to piece the puzzle together. Another image flashed before him and he concentrated on keeping it.

"You lied to Section, Michael. You lied to me, made me into a murderer. You are the only reason I'm here, the only reason I'm not free! Am I a plaything to you Michael? Am I! You did this to me, you brought me back in! And now look what you've done. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The only thing Birkoff could be certain of was that it had been Nikita speaking, although he had no idea what she meant. Confused and alone, he looked out from the desk and waited impatiently for Michael.

**********************

Nikita was just leaving Med lab when Madeline found her. The older woman smiled slightly in greeting. Nikita did not return the favor. Instead, she spoke.

"Are you here for more blood, Madeline? Or did you just miss me?" Nikita took pleasure watching the smile disappear. She kept walking but allowed Madeline to fall in step with her.

"I just came to tell you that there's a briefing in ten minutes. The mission leaves in thirty minutes. I thought you'd like to know." Madeline's voice was smooth and cultured.

"Is that all, Madeline? You didn't need to meet me in Med lab to tell me that. You could have sent someone else. What is it you really want from me?" Nikita stopped walking and turned to face the older woman.

Madeline paused also and tilted her head slightly as she studied the blonde operative. The only sound was the gentle hum of the lights. "Have you remembered anything else, Nikita?"

Nikita's gaze dropped but she quickly raised her eyes. "No. Not really. Med lab won't answer any of my questions, either. What are you keeping from me, Madeline?"

If Madeline was surprised by this last question, she was careful not to let it show. "If you believe that I'm hiding something from you, you're mistaken."

"Really," Nikita kept her voice even. "Then tell me, where are Michael and Birkoff?"

A brief moment followed this question before Madeline took a deep breathe and replied, "I don't know."

"You don't know," Nikita's blue eyes were like daggers. "And yet you're making no effort to find them, either. I may be able to remember something but you send me out on another mission instead. Are we all so expendable to Section, Madeline, that we don't even warrant concern?"

Madeline held herself stiffly, though her face never changed. "Section doesn't just throw away operatives, Nikita. We keep tabs on all our people. We will find Michael and Birkoff. Anything else is unacceptable. Your account of that night could help us, but until you have anything to add, we have to use your skills. Now. You have a briefing to attend. You'd better hurry. You wouldn't want to be late. I'll see you when you get back."

Nikita watched as Madeline moved down the hall away from her. She called out to her retreating back, "If I make it back, right Madeline?" Madeline never even paused.

**********************

A soft voice made him jump, knocking his head on the desk. Grimacing with pain and rubbing his head, Birkoff climbed out from his hiding place. A soft click and the monitor light glowed to life making him blink. Michael stood before him sporting his usual blank stare. Birkoff shivered. *Where the heck had he been, anyway?* Still rubbing his head, Birkoff moved to sit down at the terminal.

Michael stepped back.

"Do you have it?"

Michael's voice was so soft Birkoff wasn't sure he had even spoken. He briefly glanced up at Michael who was towering over him, eyes glued to the screen. Keying a quick sequence, Birkoff pulled up the files he had downloaded earlier and began to explain them to Michael. Not that Michael needed an explanation of the intel, but it helped Birkoff feel more in control.

"This is the data from the disk Nikita brought in. See here? These are the security codes on the outside doors. This indicates that they change codes every five days. That means we have two days to retrieve the formula. Now look," Birkoff clicked a button and pointed as the screen changed. "Here's a layout of the inner lab. See this flashing light? That's the most secure area. If they have it, the formula's in there."

"Do you have the codes?" Michael was still staring at the screen.

"Hold on a minute and let me pull it up. These computers are old and slow, it'll take a second," Birkoff managed to keep the frustration from his voice as he typed on the keyboard.

Michael moved from the computer and softly padded over to the door of the lab. Checking both ways cautiously, he stepped out and moved to a window. Dawn was beginning to creep through the sky, turning the night to gray light. He turned and made his way back to the computer lab.

"We don't have much time. Hurry." The instructions were short and business like.

Birkoff nodded and leaned forward as if that would help the computer run faster. Michael moved back to the door and stood there waiting. The gentle whirr and click of the computer was the only sound in the room. An unexpected beep made Birkoff jump.

"What? What is that supposed to mean?" Birkoff studied the screen intently as his fingers flew over the keyboard. He muttered softly to himself, puzzling out this new development.

Michael watched in silence, more concerned with each passing minute. The day was fast arriving and they needed to get out of there. He turned once again to the young man working at the computer.

"Just get the codes and let's move."

Birkoff didn't reply but sat in silence reading the screen. Finally, he looked up at Michael. "You'd better come here. You're not going to like this."

Michael moved from the door and studied the screen. Abruptly, he straightened, flinching slightly as his sore ribs protested. "Have you put this on a disk?

Birkoff nodded, "Yeah. I also printed up a hard copy of the warehouse layout."

"Good. Let's go," Michael was already heading for the door. He stopped and turned around, causing Birkoff to stumble because he was so close.

The young man regained his balance and looked at Michael. "What are you waiting for?" Confusion colored his voice.

Michael paused in the doorway, then nodded toward the desk they had just left. Birkoff turned to look, still confused. He had gotten everything they needed so why was Michael wasting time?

"Don't forget your candy bar, Birkoff. Or the soda can." Birkoff wasn't certain, but he could have sworn Michael was laughing at him as he turned to retrieve his candy.

**********************

Nikita sat in the dark interior of the van. The briefing had been short and she had barely had time to get changed before they left. She took this opportunity to relax a little. The other operatives were quiet as well, each lost in what could be their last thoughts. Leaning her head back, Nikita closed her eyes and let her mind wander. Inevitably it came back to Michael and Birkoff.

If they were alive, they might possibly still be close to the original mission site. This mission wasn't too far away from that site, in fact it was suspiciously close. She would have to be resourceful, but she might be able to find them. What would Michael do? Where would he go? And what about Birkoff? Were they even together? Nikita could only hope that they were. She couldn't imagine Birkoff running about on his own. Running. The word struck a chord within her and she found herself lost in an obscure memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Birkoff was staring at her with wide frightened eyes. His voice was shaking, full of fear, "I had to! He. . .he would have killed us both Nikita! He was going to! You said. . ." his voiced trailed off and she watched his eyes fall to the ground. His next words were softer than a whisper as the impact of what he had just done hit him. "They'll kill me. They'll cancel me, won't they Nikita? They'll never believe. . ." He sought her gaze for reassurance she couldn't give.

She wanted to help him, to take care of this and make it all just disappear. He was so scared and so right. They would cancel him, when they realized he had killed Michael. Michael. . .her heart nearly broke in two as she stared at his lifeless body. To lose Michaela and Birkoff at once was too much. She gave the only advice she could. Snapping her head around in sudden decision, she almost yelled at him.

"You have to run, Birkoff! Like I did. Don't let them find you! It's not really freedom, but it's close enough! Go! They WILL cancel you, Seymour! RUN! GO!!! RUNNNNNN!!!!!!!!"

The gun dropped from his fingers as she watched his wide-eyed terror. He reached up and tugged on his hair, then turned and ran into the woods. She watched him stumble on a hidden branch then catch himself and move on. When he was out of sight she turned back to Michael. So still. . .so still. . .she closed her eyes and wept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikita opened her eyes, the words she had spoken playing over and over in her head. * Run? Like I did?* She groaned softly to herself. *How much did Birkoff know?*

**********************

They were on the move again and had been all day. *At least Michael's driving* Birkoff thought. He had also been the one to steal all the cars. They had ditched the truck at the university, picking up a dark blue sedan of some sort instead. Birkoff had pointed out a sleek red car, but Michael had merely looked at him for a moment before moving toward the blue car. Birkoff followed meekly after, realizing that the nondescript car would serve their purposes much better than the other. He couldn't remember how many times they had changed cars after that as they all looked the same to him, but he did know he was thankful for the food Michael had secured at their last 'exchange'. He wasn't going to ask where the money had come from, but he figured it had something to do with the new laptop he had stowed away under his feet.

He took the last bite of his meal, then let out a satisfied sigh. After wiping his hands on a napkin, Birkoff reached for the computer. He raised the lid and turned it on, then reached for the disks he had made earlier. Michael glanced over at the sound of typing.

"What time is Section going to begin the sequence" Michael's voice was soft.

Birkoff looked up to be certain he had spoken at all. He studied Michael's profile as the other man drove but, as usual, could read nothing on the sculptured face. Keying in a few codes, Birkoff pulled up the mission profile he had downloaded and read the plan. "Looks like they'll begin at midnight. That gives us. . .," he checked the clock on the dashboard, "six hours to meet the van." He flipped through the rest of the mission, but stopped when Michael spoke again.

"Go over the layout of the warehouse again. Pull it up and read it to me."

Birkoff changed disks and began to pull the requested Intel up. As he worked, he voiced his thoughts, not really expecting an answer, "They'll have this in the van. It'll be a much better copy, too. The graphics on this thing suck but since the hard copy's not much better, so I'll pull it up anyway." * It's not like I have anything else to do* he added to himself.

Silence filled the car again and Birkoff thought he just might drown in it, it was so thick. Things had suddenly gotten very tense. He looked up, confused. "What?"

Michael was very still as he spoke, "We're not meeting the van, Birkoff."

Birkoff blinked, then blinked again. "What?" It was the only thing he could think of to say to that statement.

"We're not meeting the van," Michael's voice was still soft but his eyes drifted from the road to meet Birkoff's stare.

Birkoff's mind raced with possibilities as Michael turned his attention back to the road. *Not meeting the van? Then what were they doing?* Suddenly, Birkoff felt very small and very used. Anger welled up and spilled out in a string of words, "What is all this about, Michael? I wake up in a freakin barn, in the middle of nowhere with your blood all over me and a pounding headache and you've got me all trussed up. Then, you drag me to some backwater school that has crappy computers. I break into Section, retrieve files and give them to you. Never once did I question you about all this, but now you tell me we're not meeting Section? What are we doing then? Did you threaten to kill Nikita just so you could kidnap me? That's cold, Michael. Even for you. I thought you and Nikita had something between you. And what was all that freedom junk Nikita was harping on anyway?"

Birkoff suddenly stopped as he realized what he had just said. He let the scene replay itself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't dare turn around from the screen. Michael had forced him into the chair and so he sat, frozen, even when the van door slammed opened and he heard Michael say Nikita's name. He didn't look, but could tell that she had been crying. Her voice gave it away.

"I came back for you", she began through clenched teeth. "I gave up my freedom, Michael, to be with you. And you! Get over it, you said. Get over it! And when I did, when I found someone to finally be with, someone I could be with, you ruined it. Just like everything else in my life, you stepped in and ruined it!" Her voice trembled with emotion, echoing as she made herself louder. "But even that wasn't enough, was it Michael? Using me, betraying me again, just wasn't enough for you or Section! You wouldn't be happy until there was death. So you pushed and pushed and made him kill himself, didn't you Michael! DIDN'T YOU!!!" Nikita screamed the last at Michael, his silence seeming to enrage her further.

"You did to me, brought me in! Am I a plaything to you, Michael? AM I ?", Nikita lowered her voice and fairly hissed, "This is all your fault. All of it! You are the only reason I'm here, the only reason I'm not free! You made me into a murderer, Michael. Someone as evil and uncaring as you. Is that what you want? A copy of yourself for Section? You set me free once Michael. Warned me of the suicide mission and let me escape. You even lied to Section about me being held a prisoner by the Freedom League. I want to know why! So you could use me again and again? You've never told me why . . . " her voice trailed off and he sat there, staring at the screen that danced and whirled in front of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Birkoff turned back to find Michael staring at him. Stunned and uncertain how it all fit together, Birkoff could think of nothing to say. He turned his gaze back to the computer on his lap, mouth suddenly dry.

Michael carefully broke the strain that was between them, "Whatever you're . . . remembering, Birkoff, isn't important right now. It can be . . . dealt with . . . later. Focus on the warehouse and our objective."

Birkoff, still unable to find words, nodded.

**********************

Nikita stretched her arms over her head and then began to work the kinks out of her back. They were almost at the target but had stopped a few miles short to allow them a chance to limber up. Stiff operatives would soon be dead operatives and, brutal as Section might be at times, they didn't like to take unnecessary risks. *Madeline was right*, she thought. *Section doesn't usually just throw away operatives.* The wry humor faded quickly and she began to walk around the van, checking her gun and stretching her legs. She paused at the edge of the dense woods and looked intently into the depths. *These woods* she thought *connect somewhere close to the woods where Michael was last seen.* She tried to picture him slipping through the dense trees as he eluded capture, making his way back to her. Right now she desperately needed something positive to focus on. What she got instead was another image of that fateful night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She chambered a round, the violent sound cracking through the night. Michael froze where he was. She stepped toward him, the gun aimed at his heart. She saw his eyes move toward it.

"You," she growled. "It's all your fault." She kept her voice low.

He looked at her, his face hard at first, then softening as he lowered his gun and stepped toward her.

"Nikita," his accented voice caressed her name. She let it wash over like warm honey. "Nikita, put the gun down. I'm not going to hurt you. Let's talk about this on the way to the van."

*So soft, so gentle* she thought dreamily *and so. . . * She let him step closer, so close she could taste his rich scent. She let it flood her senses. *So. . .so. . .* she struggled to find the words to describe what he did to her.

"Nikita, listen to me. Put the gun down. Give it to me, Nikita. Nikita. . .," he was almost upon when the words came.

*So. . .false.* She pushed him away, then. Forced his heady scent from her senses, his voice from her heart. She took the final step, determined to be the one in charge for this game. She placed the gun under his chin, her other hand resting directly over the heart he refused to share with her. She smiled as his breath caught. And she made him wait.

*I could end it now* the thought was lazy and drifted by on clouds. *Right here and now. I could just tighten my finger and Michael would be gone. Leaving me alone.* She felt something shift inside her. *Yes. Alone*

She looked deep into his eyes, those bewitching green windows that he kept shuttered, and she searched. For what, she didn't know. She saw no fear, only resignation. He was ready for her, for death to take him. *Why not?* the thought whispered. *I should end it now, kill him in cold blood, like they think I killed that cop. Like I couldn't do to Stanley, or even Sykes. Cold blood. . .* That was how she felt. Cold. So very cold. She tried to clear her head, her thoughts wrapped in cotton. She swayed and closed her eyes in an effort to stop the words. *Innocent, innocent* her mind repeated it over and over.

Too late, she realized her mistake. Michael grabbed her wrist and gun and then all was darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikita jerked back to the present, surrounded by chirping insects and rustling trees. It took a moment for the images to fade, for her to find her center again. She turned, abruptly realizing that the other operatives were already in the van. With a final shove, she pushed the image aside and replaced it with the mission profile. She had a job to do for now. She would finish it, then go find Michael and Birkoff. With that resolve in mind, she settled in and focused on the warehouse.

**********************

Michael turned from his position by a tree and motioned to Birkoff forward. The young genius moved quietly until he crouched next to Michael. They were silent, letting the insects begin their song again. Cautiously, Birkoff voiced a question.

"How much further?" They had left the car on an abandoned road to walk the rest of the way to the warehouse. Birkoff was tired, tense, and he had another headache. He wished this was over and he was back in Section, or at least in the city where there were no bugs to feast on him.

Michael searched the darkness for enemies as he answered. "We're about halfway there. Section will be coming in from the other side, if they haven't run across an anomaly." He turned his attention to Birkoff, locking eyes with the younger man to drive home his instructions. "We'll be going to the little outbuilding on the layout. You'll stay there, Birkoff. No matter what happens. If I don't come back for you, you know what to do."

Birkoff could feel the gravity of Michael's orders . He had no intention of disobeying, even if he didn't know what had conspired to bring them to this point. Michael was still his best chance of survival.

Michael moved forward, leaving Birkoff to follow at his signal. The young man kept his eyes glued to Michael's form. It was difficult, as Michael was wearing all black, and he didn't want to lose sight of him. He would never find him in the darkness.

Suddenly, he saw Michael pause and tense. Then a figure loomed out of the forest and Michael moved in quickly. No real sound was made, only the soft sigh of death as Michael secured their position. Birkoff sat back and tried to remain calm. Then Michael motioned for him and he moved to join him, stumbling slightly over the dead body.

A gun was shoved into his hand as Michael took the larger weapon off the corpse for himself. Birkoff looked down at the piece he held, dimly realizing that it was almost identical to the one he had used against Michael. Putting the lap top down, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants. He had just picked the small computer up when a rumble made him still. It was followed by another quick burst then several staccato sounds. Gunfire. Birkoff met Michael's eyes in a suspended moment as they both realized Section was already moving in.

The next few minutes turned into a blur for Birkoff as Michael took off through the woods. He followed, lagging behind and trying not to make a sound. He came across two more corpses, but ignored them as he followed Michael. Then suddenly, he was out of the woods and leaning on the wall of the small building Michael had designated as the safe point.

Birkoff was breathing heavily, but quietly and a stray thought slipped through the adrenaline causing him to smile.

"What?"

Birkoff jumped as Michael came around the corner. He hadn't even realized that Michael had been gone.

"I was just thinking . . . ," Birkoff wasn't sure he wanted to share the thought, this really wasn't the place.

"What?" Michael gently prodded.

"Learning to sneeze without making a sound has really come in handy."

It took a moment, and he wouldn't swear to it, but he thought Michael smiled before he left.

**********************

Nikita had taken cover behind some crates when the gunfire first started. She dropped her night goggles over her face and returned fire, taking out two guards in no uncertain terms. Moving to a more secure location, she reported over her comm unit.

"We've been detected. Krentz and Murtaugh are down. I'm secure for the moment. Should I proceed?"

All she received back for a moment was static, then Tucker's voice came through, instructing her to go on. She rolled her eyes, then ducked as more bullets flew above her. Gritting her teeth, she rolled and fired, taking the guard out as she moved to another position.

She worked her way inside the warehouse cautiously. A movement to her right and she dove for cover, feeling a burning sting rip through her leg as she hit the floor. The impact jarred her and the gun clattered across the floor. She rolled to her back and made to kick her attacker, but her right leg wouldn't obey her command. It threw off her timing just enough and, as the faceless man countered her awkward move, she heard her own words echo prophetically in her ears.

"If I make it back, right Madeline. If. . . " There was a sharp flash of light followed by darkness.

If. **********************

Michael moved between bursts of gunfire, intent on finding Nikita and getting them out of this mess. It was obvious from the dead bodies he had encountered that this had been an ambush. He had suspected as much but Section had walked right into it, like lambs to slaughter. He already recognized four dead operatives; the mission profile had only called for eight ops in the field and two in the van. They had already been reduced by half before he could do anything to help.

He found another Section operative and bent to pull off the black mask that hid the identity. He paused a moment, realizing that the body was female. The thought that it could be Nikita coursed through him like icy flame only to doused as he realized it was too small for her. He pulled the mask away and found himself staring at Murtaugh. She opened her eyes and looked at him, fear and death mixed together. She didn't have much time left.

"Where's Nikita," it wasn't really a question, more of a demand.

"I-inside," she gurgled and gasped for air as blood leaked from her mouth and nose.

Michael was kind to her. He made it quick.

**********************

Birkoff listened as the gunfire spat into the night and then stopped only to begin again in few minutes. He sat still, gun in one hand and computer in the other. He was scared, and felt helpless. It was an unpleasant situation.

*This is crazy! I can do more than this. I will do more than this, I don't care what Michael says!* The thought was full of determination. Chancing a look at the computer screen, Birkoff took stock of his location and the probable location of the Section van. Glancing once more at the warehouse, he began to skirt the perimeter, making certain to stay hidden in the trees.

After an eternity of slow motion, he found the spot he was looking for, then turned and carefully made his way through the dark trees. He was careful to move in the same manner Michael had used to get them to the warehouse and had made it a good distance when something made him turn to his right. There was man there pointing a gun at him. Birkoff didn't think, just raised his own gun and felt it jump twice in his hand. He swallowed as the other man fell, then continued on his way.

He had the Section van in sight when he heard voices. Crouching low, he made himself as small as he could. All he could now was listen to the disembodied voices.

"Think this will work?" The voice was a tenor.

"Maybe," a gruff voice answered back.

"Why maybe?"

"Red Cell couldn't do it. They even had a directory."

"Yeah, but they gave too much warning. They shouldn't have gone after the agents first."

"They had the directory, not the location."

"Yeah, but they should have gotten the location before hitting so many agents at once."

"Maybe," the gruff voice was not convinced.

"This way'll work. We've already got the location. The disk they took worked, too. Here they are! Just like we thought." The tenor almost crowed with delight.

There was a pause, then the sound of a match being struck.

"Maybe." The gruff voice was still unconvinced.

Another pregnant pause and then, "We've got orders to secure the van. Dump the bodies over there."

Birkoff had heard enough. He felt sick as he waited for an opportunity to go back to the rendevous point to wait for Michael. He crept away, the whole conversation poisoning his mind.

**********************

The first sensation was breathing, the second, pain. Nikita opened her eyes to find herself being dragged forward. Carefully, she raised her head and saw a man standing in a pool of light. She was carried into the light, then forced her to her knees. Her leg screamed in agony at this unkind gesture and she gasped, fighting down nausea. They let her adjust, waiting for the labored breathing too slow and her eyes to focus again. Then, her head was forced back and she squinted against the harsh light. She managed to find her captor through the haze of pain. Hoping defiance shone from her eyes, she tilted her head as much as could and stiffened her back. No matter what, Nikita would die with dignity.

"Well, well. We caught one. And so close, too." The inquisitor stepped forward, his gaze raking over her body intently. She stared back, proud and true. The man saw the challenge in her and acknowledged it with a nod. He turned to an unseen accomplice.

"Keep her for insurance. We already have the goal in hand, but we can never have too much back up. " His tone dismissed her and he turned to leave.

Nikita watched him step out of the pool of light then she heard a scuffle. She didn't have time to think what it was, but she took advantage of the distraction. The guard on her right had loosened his grip and stepped forward toward the inquisitor. Nikita went limp, pulling the man off balance and toward guard holding her left arm. Just as she'd hoped, the one on her right released her arm and she tucked it underneath her body and rolled into him. Pulling hard, the guard on her left flipped over her and landed on his back. The first guard had barely missed kicking her in the head as he struggled for balance and she rolled under him. Still rolling, she landed on top the second guard and dispatched him with a quick blow to the throat. Reaching for his gun, she continued the roll while bringing the gun up to kill the first guard. It was fluid and graceful, even with her injured leg and any other time it would have worked. Only this time, the guard was already dead, lying in a pool of blood with a neat hole between his eyes.

Nikita spun to her right and watched as a black clad figured emerged from the dark. Her breath caught and her throat tightened at the sight.

Michael's gleaming eyes merged with her own in a bond so deep neither fully understood it. He lowered his gun and stepped toward her, extending a hand to help her up. He was so close she could touch him, but instead raised her own gun and fired. Michael half turned to see a guard fall dead behind him.

"I thought you were dead," Nikita's voice was tired and weak.

Michael turned his gaze back at the sound of her voice. Their eyes met again, dancing together like two butterflies.

"No." Michael moved to Nikita's side. She watched in distant amusement as he knelt beside her.

"You told me once that you would shoot me in the leg and carry me back." She smiled when he looked up. "I've saved you a bullet. Now you just have to carry me." Her smile slurred as she went slack and Michael caught her.

He held Nikita close to him for a moment, just breathing in her scent. Tenderly, he brushed the tangled blonde hair from her face, then let his hand follow the exquisite jaw line. The pad of his thumb brushed across her lips as his skin tingled with memory. Gently, he shifted her inert form so that her head rested on his shoulder. He slipped one hand behind her back, the other under her knees and they were ready to move.

He paused a moment before lifting her, working to separate himself from his physical body. His ribs screamed and his side burned. He pushed the pain aside and concentrated instead on escape. Even so, he almost cried out when the stitches tore loose and the blood coursed down his side. Standing still for a moment, Michael let the pain radiate out from the re-opened wound, then carefully put it aside to think about later. He had Nikita now; everything else would take care of itself.

**********************

Birkoff huddled against the wall, turning the conversation over and over in his mind. It was obvious they planned to take over Section. They had already been suckered them into an ambush and were now planning to. . .what? Storm Section headquarters? It had certainly sounded that way. But they couldn't possibly break into Section One, even if they did have the location. No, security was too tight. He had made sure of that himself.

But what was that about the disk? Birkoff felt his gut clench at the thought. There was something about the disk, something he knew he'd missed. He tried to remember, closing his eyes he prayed for a memory, a connection.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikita handed him the disk then moved to stand behind him. He put in the drive then began to rapidly key in sequences. He smiled when the screen blinked and changed. It was too easy sometimes.

"I'm just going to get a bit of fresh air, Birkoff. I'll be right back," Nikita's voice came from behind him.

He heard the van door shut as she left, but didn't pay it much attention. He had three minutes to confirm that the disk was viable. Michael would be calling soon. He reached up and tugged his hair, waiting.

He moved a finger around his collar. He was hot; Nikita must have let all the air conditioning out when she left. Suddenly, the screen jumped. He looked closer at it. Some sort of strange configuration was going on, dancing and moving up and down the screen. The variety of colors was amazing. He didn't even know that this monitor had some of those shades.

"Birkoff! Are you there?" Michael's voice interrupted him. The pattern had flown away, leaving numbers in it's place.

He heard himself answer, "Yeah! Of course I'm here, but I'm busy, Michael! I can't be babysitting Nikita right now! She's here, she just went outside to get some air. It's hot in this van. Can I finish this?!" He couldn't keep the exasperation from his voice.

"You can't see her, Birkoff?" Michael's voice was back.

"No!" He was really irritated now.

He looked back at the screen, mesmerized by the dancing lights again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dancing lights? Was he insane? Suddenly, an earlier image came to mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Do. . .We. . .Have. . .It", he looked up into the barrel of a Michael's gun. He felt his eyes widen and he began to stutter out an answer.

"Uh, yeah. We've got it," for some reason, his tongue felt six inches thick, the words awkward. He turned back to his computer screen, the van suddenly smaller. His screen danced before him in a mesmerizing play of light. Far away, he could hear Michael.

"All teams converge. We have confirmation."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Birkoff's eyes flew open and he thought with horror, *But we didn't! We didn't have confirmation! All we had was dancing lights!*

**********************

Michael was exhausted, yet he knew he wouldn't be able to rest for long time. He eased around the corner and saw Birkoff sitting with his back against the wall and his eyes closed. He made a deliberate sound as he approached and Birkoff snapped up and raised the gun. Michael paused, letting him see who it was and then watched as he lowered the gun.

"Nikita!" Birkoff's voice was a whisper as he moved to help Michael ease her down.

Michael took a moment to catch his breath. He swallowed hard, fighting off the darkness that wanted to envelop him. He won the battle, but just barely.

Birkoff was kneeling next to the blonde operative as she moaned and opened her eyes. He smiled at her dazed look.

"Birkoff! You're alive and okay," she was happy and pleased to see him. Her voice warm even if a bit unsteady.

"Yeah. I'm better off than you, at least." He made no attempt to hide his own happiness.

"No doubt. Give me a minute, 'kay?" She shifted her position.

Birkoff took the opportunity to speak to Michael. He relayed the van conversation, not even caring that Michael might be mad at him for breaking position. The intel was too important. Then he moved on, admitting to his own mistake.

"We didn't have confirmation, Michael," even he could hear the shame in his voice.

Michael paused, looking intently at the younger man, but saying nothing.

Birkoff continued, "I'm really sorry. It's all my fault. I don't know what happened or why I said that. All I know is that I screwed up and here we are."

Michael still didn't answer. Birkoff was getting concerned when Michael's soft voice reached his downcast face.

"It was a set-up, Birkoff. I became certain when the interior of the warehouse didn't match the schematics," Michael watched carefully for Birkoff's reaction.

Birkoff's brown eyes widened and he stared through Michael, "Then this has all been a distraction. Why?"

Michael leaned up against the wall as another wave of exhaustion threatened to overtake him. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, formulating his answer. "They have Section's location. Can they breach security?" He dropped his hand and met Birkoff's wide-eyed stare.

"No. Those codes are. . .,"Birkoff's voice trailed off as he pieces of intel began to fall together. They fit into an answer so obvious that he couldn't believe he'd ever overlooked it. He snapped back to the present and looked back at Michael. "The disk! I cleared it and it's in Section. That stupid computer at the school wouldn't run it all the way, that's why I was getting those stupid error codes. Michael, we have to get back to Section, or at least the van. If those numbers mean what I think they mean, we're in trouble."

Michael pushed himself away from the wall as he absorbed Birkoff's words. He looked at Nikita's prone form where she lay propped against the wall with her hand pressed over the bleeding thigh. Abruptly, he turned and began to issue orders. "Take Nikita and go to the car. I'll take care of the van."

"But-"

"Just do it, Birkoff," he moved to Nikita and knelt by her side. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He hated to see the pain there and wished he could ease it for her.

He raised his hands to her shoulders, rubbing them gently for a tiny moment before moving his hands lower. He traced the edge of her vest, working downward until he found what he was looking for. Their eyes met in unspoken communication and she smiled as he pulled the explosive from the inside pocket.

Michael stood and moved away, disappearing into the woods like a soft sigh. Nikita watched him go, then looked at Birkoff as he held the laptop. She half-smiled and extended a hand toward him in a supplication for help. Together, they stood, adjusting weight distribution and computer until, satisfied, they started toward the car.

It was not an easy path. More than once, Nikita stopped to lean against a tree. They both knew they didn't have much time but it couldn't be helped. They both concentrated on the task at hand until they reached the dirt road where the car was hidden.

They limped along in uneasy silence for a few moments before Nikita ventured to break it. For the first time, she was uneasy around Birkoff. She didn't know what he had heard or even what she had said. The way he might react to it was up in the air as well. "Listen, Birkoff. Some of the things I said the other night. . .,"

"What things," Birkoff kept his eyes straight ahead, holding one arm around Nikita's waist as she limped beside him. He stopped as she tugged gently on his shoulders.

"Birkoff-"

"Look, Nikita," he interrupted, his eyes meeting hers. "Whatever you said, well, it doesn't matter. You can trust me. Okay?"

They stared at each other, coming to a mutual understanding. Nikita nodded and opened her mouth to speak when the ground shook and a loud rumble danced around them. They both turned to see a ball of fire mushrooming above the tree tops. After watching in silence for a moment, they turned away and picked up their pace.

**********************

Michael pulled himself up from the thick carpet of leaves and staggered to the next tree. He hadn't made it as far away from the explosion as he would have liked and the shock wave had thrown him down. Looping an arm around his torso, he staggered on. If his ribs had only been cracked before, he was certain they were broken now. He focused his thoughts on the road and the car that would take him away from this hell. Section needed them and Nikita would be waiting.

Weaving through the trees, Michael let the information Birkoff had gathered roll over in his mind. He had known that the warehouse was probably some sort of trap, he just hadn't known why. Knowing Section's methods he had surmised, correctly as it turned out, that they would spring the trap and use Nikita to do so. They had hoped that it might shed some light on the other intel they had received, which was another reason he had decided to follow along. Nikita was an important reason, but not the only one.

Still, the fact that the trap hadn't yielded anything viable had bothered him. At least until Birkoff had provided details of the conversation he had overheard. It all came down to the disk in some way.

Michael stumbled, catching himself on a low branch before he hit the ground. The sudden movement caused a tug on his side and he felt the few remaining stitches pull from his skin. Just managing to hold himself up, Michael closed his eyes and gripped the tree tightly, fighting the pain from his injured ribs that laced every breathe. After a moment, he carefully straightened and began again.

A second, lesser explosion rocked the night. The rest of the van going, Michael was certain. A part of him wished he could have secured the vehicle and notified Section but he couldn't take the chance that it had been compromised. He also couldn't leave it in enemy hands; hence the explosive he had acquired from Nikita.

Her name made him half smile as an image of her holding a gun to his head wavered in front of him. She had stood there, ferocious and magnificent as she held his life in her hands and he was almost happy to think that she would be the one to take it from him. It had seemed like poetic justice. In the end though, his Section training had taken over and he had managed to render her unconscious, if only for a little while.

Suddenly, Michael was out in the open and on the dirt road. He turned as headlights flashed out of the darkness, almost blinding him. Moving only on instinct, he dropped and rolled into a narrow ditch. He was just bringing his handgun up when the car stopped next to him and Birkoff peeked out the window.

Michael stared up in disbelief as the young man's cheery words greeted him.

"Hey, Michael. I'm driving this time. It's an automatic!"

**********************

"Dammit, Birk-," Operations stopped short as he realized whose name he had almost said. His frustration was not eased by the fact that he couldn't remember the name of the young man running Birkoff's station now. He clenched his jaw tightly and continued to punch keys on the keyboard. Forcibly, as if the keyboard would respond to the extra pressure. After several minutes with no change, he threw up his hands and turned to find Madeline entering the room.

"I was just going to call you", his voice was tight with suppressed anger.

Madeline struggled to keep the smile from her face. As much as they depended on technology, Operations still hadn't mastered some of the more basic functions. Not that he wasn't capable. He just didn't have time to dwell on such trivial matters.

Stepping further into the room, she let some of her amusement show on her face. It often served to lesson anger and make people more at ease. "Yes. We've been having several problems with internal systems. That's why I'm here."

"Problems?" Operations turned his hard blue eyes to the floor below his perch, watching several young people work frantically over computer consoles.

Madeline waited until he had finished his perusal of Section personnel before continuing. "Yes. It seems that several functions have gone offline, the intercom system being one of them."

"Are we losing contact with any missions over this?"

"Not at the moment. These are minor setbacks and internal only. Our people are confident that they will have them fixed soon. I thought you should know," her tone was gracious.

Operations smiled into Madeline's eyes, "Good. Keep me informed."

She nodded, "Of course."

Madeline turned to leave but paused as a young man hesitantly stepped into the balcony room. He watched nervously as Operations stepped up beside Madeline.

Then he cleared his throat and began, "Sir? There's been a, um, a setback."

"What kind of setback?" Operations growled.

"We just lost our satellite link," the young man's eyes dropped as he mumbled his reply.

"Meaning-?" Operations demanded an explanation.

He had expected the young man to answer but it was Madeline who turned to him. "Meaning we've lost outside communication."

He looked hard at her for a moment, taking solace in her calm demeanor, then turned back to the young man. "Phone lines?"

The answer was a whisper, "No sir."

"We're cut off." It was a statement made more pleasant only by Madeline cultured voice.

Operations brought a fist down on the console in front of the window. "Get this fixed," there was no argument in his tone. He watched in little satisfaction as the young man nodded and fled. Madeline remained.

He didn't look at her as she stood beside him, but he did speak. "I want Birkoff here. Now."

Madeline did not reply.

**********************